Disorder
by DarkArts27
Summary: "Disorder is a constant. Even at the subatomic level everything is changing before your neurons can fire and you can draw breath into your lungs. But your chest vibrates with a pain that you know you deserve because you can't blame physics or the chaotic nature of the universe for how you're feeling or what you've done."


**A/N: Another in the list of Harry leaving fics. But there's so many feels, so I think we're all entitled. Any errors in this are my own, and I won't lie, there's likely a few because I'm exhausted and have been doing GIS work for a large part of the day so my eyes aren't noticing a whole heap of anything right now. The usual disclaimer applies; BBC has rights etc, and let's be honest, if we were in charge none of this nonsense would be going on because they would have been together years ago :') So drop me a review whether you like it or hate it, and then we can go back to wallowing as a fandom.**

* * *

_And we're changing our ways, taking different roads._

_Then love, love will tear us apart again._

_- Joy Division_

* * *

In the darkest moments before dawn you wake. Heart tightening, fingers grasping, eyes searching, toes twitching. The room comes into focus before your sleep fouled eyes and the scent of the fresh sheets lingers in the air.

Lungs contract and air is expelled.

The weary sigh crawls over your lips and out into the room you've let yourself become familiar with. Grimy fingers rub sleep from your eyes and the unconscious thoughts that woke you return with fervour. The same fingers slide to the bridge of your nose before roughly raking through your hair.

Your world is changing.

You know nothing stays the same. Disorder is a constant. Even at the subatomic level everything is changing before your neurons can fire and you can draw breath into your lungs. But your chest vibrates with a pain that you know you deserve because you can't blame physics or the chaotic nature of the universe for how you're feeling or what you've done.

Your world is changing.

But so is hers.

Yours is a choice and hers a sacrifice; an unnecessary sacrifice that you've forced upon her through your cruelty and timing and unwillingness to man up and face what you've both been waiting some 8 years for.

The bed frame creaks as your weight shifts and your legs find themselves off the side of the mattress and in the crevasse that separates the two of you. She deserves more than this. God knows, she deserves the world and all the happiness within it. But your stomach churns and your throat seems to narrow and you know that this is the only way out.

You change quickly. Quietly. Shoes tied and bags packed, ready to take your leave and break the strongest woman you know. You forgo shaving and somewhere in the back of your mind a voice tells you that it's because you don't give a damn about New York or professorships or anything that isn't in the room next to you. But you silence it with a sigh and a shake of your head, carrying your bags to the foyer and depositing them silently.

You know she's been waiting. Waiting for you to make the decision that would change the lives of you both, because as much as she is a modern woman, you know that she was leaving it in your hands. Those she thought capable enough to carry such a burden. The price she placed on your friendship was higher than you felt you deserved and you knew she was too afraid to risk that. Too terrified to lose you.

But you've let her down.

You feel every word you've never said to her pulsing through your veins as you walk to the threshold of her bedroom. It feels toxic. Constricting. And with every beat of your heart you feel arteries and vessels tighten as regret pulses through your body.

Restless feet carry you further into her bedroom and you feel your toes curling in your boots as though seeking stability on the precipice on which you now stand.

She looks peaceful as she sleeps. Hair on her face and quilt crumpled around her. For a brief moment in time you realise that you haven't seen her that peaceful in such a long time, and maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with your extended stay at her house. A beat passes and you push the thought away, along with another that had you questioning whether she'd be this peaceful again with you gone. You hoped she would.

The scent of her room – _of her_ – catches you for a moment, and an unconscious smile graces your lips because you're sure there is nothing else in the world that is quite so heavenly. The sun has only just crept over the horizon line, light sliced between buildings and trees and only barely reaching her bedroom, but enough filters in for you to see the little details that are so innately _her_.

Her room is only sparsely decorated you notice, some books, photographs, her cello and a small couch in the corner. Clothes peek out of her half closed wardrobe door, and you realise they're likely the remnants of her choosing an outfit for work and then your dinner last night. You silently chuckle at her womanly antics. She needn't go to so much trouble.

She always looks lovely.

Your eyes are drawn back to her once more and you feel them burn with sadness and regret because you know it didn't always have to end this way. There's a delicate frailty to her stillness; one arm strewn out to the side, half hanging off the mattress edge, other resting lightly upon her solar plexus, rising with each breath drawn to her lungs. Your fingers pulse and twitch with the need to touch her. Every fibre of your being, every cell of your skin yearns for her, and for a second you reach to smooth her hair, but she shifts in her sleep and moment is gone.

A shaky sigh rolls past your lips and you know it's time to go.

Your eyes skate over every beautiful curve of her face willing yourself to never forget how at ease she is in this moment before you force yourself to turn away. Photographs are in your field of view again and you find yourself smiling back in more than half of them. There's a note on top of a small pile of books and you see _For Harry_ written on it with her delicate script. The necklace you gave her last Christmas sits on her dresser shining in the dim morning light.

And suddenly it's all too much.

You're everywhere, scattered throughout her bedroom and her house and the life that you realise you've left far too big an impression in. Every piece of you that's here in her home is screaming at you not to leave and now your collar's too tight and your breaths are too short and you know this is wrong but you're doing it for her.

In some twisted, almost chivalrous way you know that this is what she needs.

What you both need.

Once you're out of her life she can live again, free of the burden you're sure your presence has placed on her. You know how taxing you can be, especially since Budapest. You've been seeing more of your father in the mirror with every day that passes and you know that you're doing this to save her from yourself. To save all of them from the weight of your anger and regret.

This is the most selfless way you can think to free her, yet you know she won't see it that way. She won't understand why you've up and left her without so much as a goodbye. She'll cry, she'll hate you and Leo will too. _How could you leave her in such a way?_ But she deserves so much more; they all do.

You were only holding them back.

She's getting older. You both are. Every second you've spent standing still with bated breath waiting for an ending that never seemed to occur has been wasted and you can't help but pity her for wasting eight years of her life on a fool like you. And all for nothing. You know she wants to settle down. Husband, children, maybe a pet or two, and you know she'll be perfect at it.

This is her best chance.

With you gone.

You remove the letter from your pocket and with a shaky hand place it under the coloured vase that rests on the table in the foyer, corners peeking out so you know she'll find it soon, but not right away. You're not sure when you became such a coward, but you've seen her cry more than enough for a lifetime and you're not sure your resolve could withstand seeing her face when she finds out what you've done.

You know when she wakes and sees that you're gone at first she'll assume, with slight disdain, that you've up and returned to your newly fixed apartment without saying goodbye. Perhaps she'll be annoyed, not noticing the white corners under the vase, and won't ring you until the next day, even then only expecting you to be a 13 minute drive away, not in another country, on another continent. An ocean away from her.

But it's for the best.

Your hand grasps the cool door handle and you nudge it open before collecting your bags. The taxi you ordered will be here in a minute and you can't chance waking her.

Or you just might not leave.

As you reach to close the door behind you your mind is bombarded with thoughts of the last eight years with her. Conversations. Hugs. Meals. Movies. Rescues. Reassurances. They spill from your brain and cloud your vision, pulling themselves to the forefront of everything like fingers grasping at skin and clawing at eyes. And the ache in your gut and the tugging in your chest feel like the first real, solid things you've felt since you held her on those memorial steps.

The door shuts gently, your foot softening the action, and then you're down the stairs and on the footpath and the taxi rounds the bend up ahead.

The sun has risen completely, the golden orb hovering above the horizon, giving you hope and warming your face as you remind yourself that this is the right thing to do.

Your world is changing.

And so is hers.

But the universe keeps expanding.

And the world keeps rotating.

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**A/N: Eeep. I hope it wasn't too terrible. Let me know what you thought, or feel free to just vent about how crap this situation is :'(**


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